


Between the Sunset and the Waves

by amutemockingjay



Series: Love Lost at Low Tide [1]
Category: Kubo and the Two Strings (2016)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Magic, Strength
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amutemockingjay/pseuds/amutemockingjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Kubo needed to disappear. What he found along the way would surprise even him. Post-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Sunset and the Waves

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! This is my first time ever writing for this fandom, so I'm cresting on a wave of self-doubt, but I saw Kubo and knew fic would happen in some way or another. I am participating in a fanfic bingo with some friends, so this fills one of the squares. The prompt was "disappearing." In my headcanon, Kubo is about twelve but I have no idea how accurate that is. Also, in my headcanon, magic exists everywhere in his world, but there are some people who are more skilled in it than others. Anyway, enjoy, and let me know what you think in the comments! Bonus points for the person who catches the Hamilton reference at the end.

Sometimes, Kubo had to disappear. Not because he didn’t like the village—far from it. The village was home now, with his grandfather. He passed the days the way he always had, telling stories in the square, but now he no longer had to worry about being home before sunset. Now, his stories had an ending. He found bittersweetness in that, in bringing the adventures of Hanzo to some foregone conclusion. There was something he missed about his old life—well, he knew specifically who he was missing. Which was why he needed to disappear sometimes.

He had learned a lot with his grandfather. Had learned about kindness and patience and love. But that didn’t entirely make up for the hole in his heart when he thought about his parents. More than once he had disappeared back into the forest, back where he had spoken to the spirits of his parents. Spent time in front of the tree altar, telling them all the things he could never say to his grandfather. The urge to disappear again itched like a second skin, his chest tightening up as if he couldn’t breathe. So, after breakfast, he said goodbye to his grandfather and took his shamisen, taking the path out of the village, towards the sea.

The sea made him think of his mother, and as he dug his feet into the sand, he longed for her. Missed the sound of her voice, the way she used to tell him stories of his father, even if she didn’t finish them, either. He reached into the pocket of his robes as if by habit, though the wooden statue of the Monkey had been gone for a while now. He plucked out a long, lonely chord on his shamisen, the music flowing through his body, bringing his magic to life. The best reminder he had of them lie with his instrument, in the magic he had been granted through his mother. Instantly, the pieces of paper came to life, began folding themselves into the shapes of Hanzo and Sariatu.

“That’s amazing!” A voice startled Kubo and he stopped, the origami paper fluttering back to simple squares.

A girl about his age stepped out from the rice fields, her long, dark hair hanging by her shoulders. He didn’t recognize her from the village; she must have been from one of the neighboring ones.

She was barefoot, too, her small feet sinking into the sand, lapping at her ankles. “How did you do that?”

Kubo shrugged his shoulders. He had just wanted to disappear for the day; he had not counted on actual company.

The girl settled down next to him with a sunny smile. “I’m Sachiko, by the way.”

“Kubo.” He tried to return the smile, but it felt more like a grimace. Darkness hung over him like a cloud, though he knew that his mother and father lived in his heart as memories, that didn’t make the grief easier to bear.

“Could you show me?”  She brushed back a little bit of her long, untameable hair.

“Huh?”

“Show me, what you did with those papers. The magic.”

“Oh.”

He plucked a chord on his shamisen, and once again, the paper came to life. Instead of Hanzo, though, the paper formed itself into a crane, which took flight around Sachiko. She reached out to touch it, and the bird poised on the tip of her finger.

“That’s brilliant,” she breathed.

“I tell stories. Back in my village. Nearly every day a different one. They help me bring the stories to life.”

Sachiko was still fascinated by the bird. “What sort of stories?”

“Mostly about my father. He was a great warrior.”  He could feel the familiar closing of his heart, thinking of Hanzo. Living his whole life thinking his father was dead, only to find him alive and cursed, but still taken from him at the last possible second. It was almost too cruel.

“Was?”

“Yes. He is no longer with us.” The words didn’t match what happened. But he wasn’t about to admit as much to a virtual stranger.

“I’m so sorry.” Sachiko lightly stroked the paper bird. “But you have left your father a wonderful legacy.”

This time, the smile that graced his features wasn’t forced. “You think so?”

“Of course!” She dug her toes further in the sand, wiggling them a little. “To know his son has immortalized him in the minds and hearts of others? There can be no greater gift. Surely he looks down from the heavens and smiles upon you.”

Her words lifted the heavy cloud from his mind. He struck another chord, and the paper formed a young doe and its mother, which walked up to Sachiko and sniffed her hand delicately. She giggled a little, and he wished he could hear the sound again.

“You must be very blessed, to have such magic,” she continued. “My mother is a common kitchen witch; she uses spices and herbs and teas in her magic. She’s trying to teach me now, but I fear it is not as easy as she makes it seem.”

“It takes practice,” Kubo agreed, looking down at the paper animals. “I am much stronger in magic than when I started.”

“Kubo?”

“Yes?”

“Will you tell me a story? Make it come to life?” 

And so he did. He told her the beginning, how it all started. The paper folded itself into Hanzo and Sariatu and the Moon King, how Sariatu had given up everything to love Hanzo, and her daring escape with baby Kubo, the eye taken from Kubo. It was a story the villagers did not know, and he wasn’t entirely certain why he was sharing it with her, but her words had struck him in a way he couldn’t fully verbalize.

He talked until the sun dipped low in the clouds. That was when she stood up, dusting the sand off her feet.

“I have to go,” she said, regret in her voice. “My family will be wondering where I’ve gone to. But maybe—“ There was hope in her dark eyes, “Maybe, we could see each other again?”

The pieces of paper fluttered back into plain squares. He picked up his shamisen. “Until we meet again.”

* * *

 

He never actually thought he would see Sachiko again. He returned to his normal routine, telling stories in the village by day, taking care of Grandfather and the house by night. A few days after he first met her on that lonely beach, he returned to the sand and the waves.

He spotted her right away, sitting close to the tide, not minding that the sea was getting the hem of her dress wet, skipping a pure white stone against the lapping water.

“Sachiko!”

She stood up right away. “Kubo! Are you here to finish your story?”

“I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”

She settled into the sand, all attention. When he got to the part about his quest to find his father’s armor, she sighed with envy.

“I’ve always wanted to be a warrior,” she admitted, looking down at her dress. “But my mother said that is a realm for men, not a girl like me. I should be preparing to one day be a wife and mother. I just…” She gave him a sidelong glance, “I don’t want to live an ordinary life. Do you understand what I mean?”

Kubo nodded. He could understand that. Having an adventurous spirit. Her words sparked an idea in him. “What if I taught you? How to be a warrior.”

She squealed and threw her arms around him. He stiffened a little at the close contact. She smelled nice, like sakura blossoms in the spring. “You’re the best!”

Paper Hanzo watched them as they sparred with sticks, her form slowly improving under his gentle tutelage. She was out of breath, laughing as she tried to keep up with him.

This was what it was like to have a friend, Kubo realized. Though all the villagers knew and loved him for his stories, this was different. As they practiced, he grew to know Sachiko—the youngest of four sisters, the only one who hadn’t left the home to get married. A few more years yet, she would have to wait. Who preferred going barefoot everywhere and feeling the earth between her toes. Who may have been hopeless at magic, but had a special touch with the animals in the forest, near the cemetery that Kubo frequented.

In between sparring, he’d settle back down on the beach and continue the story, the real story, the one he hadn’t breathed to anyone in the village. Fiction was easier in the village—and the villagers only knew the conclusion of the real story, of his defeat at the hands of the Moon King, of how the spirits of the villagers’ loved ones had created the most powerful magic that had saved everything. He still felt guilty about the destruction at the hands of the Sisters, that it was his fault for drawing them to him.

Sachiko was an attentive listener, drawn in by the power of his words. But all too soon, sunset came, and she stood up, dusting off her dress. Much to his surprise, she threw her arms around him again and quick as you please, pressed a kiss to his cheek. He flushed.

“Bye, Kubo,” she said, almost shyly.

“Bye,” he echoed, watching her retreat into the shadows.

He didn’t see her in the next few days, but she wasn’t far from his mind. He was scatterbrained and lost, burning the miso soup he made for Grandfather for dinner.

“Something troubling you, Kubo?” He asked, being far more polite about the ruined dinner than was really necessary.

Kubo picked at his dinner, not able to meet his grandfather’s eyes. “I’m fine,” he said absently, before changing the subject to the heron migration that would pass by the village.

The next time he made it out to the sea, she wasn’t there. Disappointment clawed at his raw edges. He settled into the sand, playing his shamisen, eyes on the horizon. A piece of white paper fluttered to life in the shape of a butterfly, making its way towards him. There was the bright stain of ink on the paper, and he put down his shamisen, unfolding the butterfly. A note. He didn’t recognize the handwriting.

 _Dear Kubo,_ it read. _I hope you get this note, because saying goodbye to you that day wasn’t enough, could not be enough. I’m writing to tell you that thanks to you, I have found the courage to make my own way in this world. I may not be a great warrior like you are, but I have to take the chance to do so much more than just be a wife and mother someday. I write you to thank you for everything. Thank you for the stories that gave me courage. Thank you for the lessons, and thank you for the magic. I will carry it with me always. I wish the best for you, Kubo, for happiness, and many stories to come._

_Your friend,_

_Sachiko_

He slumped up against the rocks. Another person gone, another memory to hold onto. Memories, and the love they contained, were the strongest magic there was, but he wished sometimes that they didn’t come at such a cost. He played a low, mournful tune on his shamisen, the figures of Hanzo and Sariatu coming back to life out of paper. They sat next to him as he looked out onto the horizon, overwhelmed.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, watching the tide come in, listening to the crash and roar of the waves, the note in his hands. A piece of her to hold onto. Goodbyes were never his forte; there was never time for them. The abrupt send-off he had gotten with his mother, while the Sisters wrecked havoc on the village. The final showdown, with Monkey and Beetle; he had been fighting for his life, for their lives, and he had failed. He hung his head. The need to disappear left him gasping for breath. Grief buried him in a rush of sound and color that left him drowning. He forced himself to the surface, the world blurring in his good eye.  Memories were bittersweet, and he knew that what Sachiko had said on the first day he met her was ultimately right. He left a legacy, in his memories, in the stories he told. Now she would be part of that story, as brief of a role she had played. He started a new song, the mournful giving way to the hopeful.

It would be enough. It had to be enough.


End file.
